Defined - Book I
by Thirsty19
Summary: For every moment there was a word, and every word defined by the moment...A series of behind-the-scenes oneshots focusing on The Fellowship of the Ring
1. Eternity

**AN: **This collection of oneshots was inspired by another story I wrote, Catharsis, and writing these first two was like pulling teeth...without getting the numbing shot...so I really hope you like it, and I would really appreciate reviews! This first set is going to focus on the first movie/book, and I plan to do two more collections for the other movies/books. I'm not going in order with how events happen, just in order of whatever pops into my head first. The one below is based on a scene in the extended version of the 1st movie when the Fellowship is leaving Rivendell and focuses on Arwen's pov after Aragon, in particular, leaves. YouTube has it if you're curious to see what I mean. I will probably have direct quotes from the movies/books in most of these, and, of course, they do not belong to me. Nor do the characters. I just really enjoy digging around inside their heads:)

Again, I hope you enjoy! Please review!

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**Eternity**

_~from the Latin aeviternus; eternal, everlasting, imperishable_

The sound was like rain.

Methodical. Steady. Calm. Working outside of its own control. But at the same time it was harder, sharper, more abrupt, as if aware of its deadly purpose. Such was the echo of his swords, his daggers, of all the metal fastenings and hooks that secured each to his person.

She listened to it until it was not there to be heard, oblivious to the sounds of her kin retreating back into the various open halls and passages of Imladris.

And then she opened her eyes, raised her head and felt the tears roll down her cheeks. She blinked at the empty column of air that now hovered where he had stood.

Her love.

"Arwen?"

Suddenly appearing at her side, her father cradled her face within a warm palm, and she shifted to see him. His blue eyes had hardened to a fretted gray that, along with his furrowed brow and taut chin, darkened his entire countenance.

"My daughter…Do not lament him," he said. The voice was pleading. A thumb brushed at the moist tracks left behind by her tears.

"He is moving on," Elrond continued. "You _must_ do the same."

The sweetness of the Grey Tongue upon his lips called out to Arwen then as it never had before. The language of the elves, of the Firstborn. So rich the words were with heritage and familiarity, so fluid and light the tone. It was a language that had been entirely perfected throughout the ages of their existence. It rang with such superiority, such beauty of speech alone. How could she deny the blessing of belonging to such a race? How could she long for less than she was worth?

And yet…

_What was it you said, my love?_

Aragorn's words echoed against the shattered frame of her heart: _I thought I had strayed into a dream._

It was no dream. It had been real. _Was_ real. A passionate fervor that stirred within her very soul at the mere thought of his eyes, of his lips, of his steady heartbeat against her own. It was alive, straining to breathe in and out against the vast distances that often separated them. It was the realest thing her soul had ever known. The deepest love she had ever felt. Could she abandon it? Could she forsake him and deny herself forever?

Closing her eyes, she dropped her face away from the warm caress of Elrond's hand.

"You ask too much of me, Ada."

Arwen turned and rushed up the courtyard steps, ran from the will of her father, of her people. Tears blurred her vision.

_I am mortal. You are elf-kind, _he had said.

But he was wrong. They were one. Bound together, woven into each other so completely that there was no distinguishing such differences. Mortal. Elf. What were these compared to essence, to soul? Her heart beat in step with his own. She had absorbed him, and he her.

_It was a dream, Arwen…_

Lies.

She shook her head of them. Fought within herself to deny the shadow rule over her mind. She ran. She took familiar paths without seeing them, the turns and twists of Rivendell like a familiar song. Calling forth memories of herself as a child, curled up against her mother's breast, falling away from consciousness. The songs of the elves were Ageless, enduring from dawn to dawn—like its people. Passing into forever with the ease of summer into fall, fall into winter. Continuous. Repetitive. Unchanging.

_And this is the life you would desire for me, my love?_

If she was to travel to the Undying Lands, there would be no war, no states battling each other for power or control. But did he not see how her heart would writhe within her?

There would be no sadness or despair in suffering caused by the strain of the world. But did her not know that he was her world? Did he not know how she would lament for him? Long for his presence, feel his absence in the depth of her bones?

Arwen stopped her racing instinctively on the banks of a quiet stream, blanketed in a pale morning mist and yet untouched by the sun. She stood just within the shoreline. Clear, pristine water climbed up the hem of her dress. Her eyes traveled across the tiny creek and studied the thin path hidden behind the trees. Where she had first seen him. The trees had been bathed in still moonlight then, and Aragorn had walked among them with all the quiet grace of an elf, all the respect and confidence. Yet he was a man. Stronger. Firmer. Realer…She had thought him an angel.

She had loved him.

"May the grace of the Valar protect you," she whispered.

Her tears dripped one by one into the crystal waters of the stream.

_I never asked to live forever, my love. I only ask for you_.


	2. Avarice

**AN: **This one is based on the scene where Saruman gets his orders from Mordor to build an army...shortly after the battle with Gandalf:)

Please review!

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**Avarice**

_~ from the Latin avaritia; an excessive or inordinate desire to possess, greed_

Fifty miles from the tower of Orthanc, storm clouds blacker than the night they invaded were barreling across the sky. Scattering birds. Swallowing stars. They had been summoned from the wealth of evil that hovered like air over Mordor, pulled harshly towards the high wizard's dwelling by invisible strings. And come they did.

Bringing with them the heat of fire, the stench of goblins.

His essence was light.

To be and provide illumination. That was his purpose. The purpose that spurned the name. Saruman the _White_.

Thus the darkness gathering within him now was foreign. Not well understood.

But that didn't mean it wasn't welcome.

The Age-old wizard slowly paced the black and dismal halls of his fortress. Within him, a chaotic collection of thoughts and emotions, passions and doctrines were spinning and colliding so forcefully that each individual idea was being wholly confused with another. His mind, consumed. His soul, torn. His powers…they raged without will or direction, violent as they adjusted to the sudden compulsion taking over their host.

_So this is darkness?_

Saruman paused for a moment at a window, frowning as his gaze trickled downward to study the thick forest that surrounded his abode. The wealth of Isengard. The extent of his realm.

Little more than a pathetic river. Useless, old trees.

Shaking his head, he scoffed and lifted his eyes heavenward into the darkness of the night sky. A sudden flash of lightning in the distance drew his attention east, and it was then that he saw it. The mass of black and shadow spiraling towards him amid rambles of thunder and bolts of white-hot lightning. His gaze narrowed. Cautiously scrutinizing the source of such a sudden, clearly malicious storm. But then he recognized a certain stirring within his chest. His powers erupting with the fury of some caged king of beasts kept too long from its will. With each crack and boom of his own energy against the bars, the storm clouds shook with thunder and the wind pushed them ever nearer.

A smile broke across the Istari's face. He closed his eyes.

_So this is Power._

To summon storms without even willing it.

Inhaling deeply, he turned from the window as lightning silhouetted his figure against the hard, stone floors. This was dangerous.

The sound of rain against the metal shell of the tower filled the space around him. Collided with the more violent sounds of the storm rushing on outside his walls. Staff in hand, he lifted his arms and, with a great roar, directed the fullness of his powers into the sky. The pressure that answered him exploded across the landscape in a torrent of sound and light and quaking earth.

Glorious.

The old wizard shook from arm to arm, crown to toes as he caused his powers to still, and allowed the storm to rumble on without his influence. Heavy mists shrouded his mind. His vision blurred.

Saruman the White was gone. Unhinged. Unleashed. _Reborn_.

Wrapping his white cloak firmly about his shoulders, he shuffled slowly back through the corridors into the oppressive dark of his study. The black walls echoed his footsteps. Sauron's words reverberated in his thoughts:

_Build me an army worthy of Mordor…_

Saruman lowered himself into a chair by the fireplace, oblivious to the feel of its heat. He closed his eyes once more, pondered the command he had been given. An army. An army for Sauron?

No.

Sauron was weak, a mere spirit seeking to dominate men. No. The army would belong to Saruman, along with all the power and glory it brought.

To _him_.

Somewhere within the fortress, the hinges of a door were crying out in protest. The wizard listened. He could hear their footsteps on the stairs and then echoing out from the hall.

The goblins.

Their master had sent them to serve their new ally. Disgusting, wretched creatures. Hideous, their souls and blood both black with devilry. Yet within that same blood coursed the potential to make him the most powerful force of the Age. And that redeemed their every folly in Saruman's eyes and made them more than tolerable. More than welcome.

Indeed, he could not recall once, in his thousands of years of existence, anticipating the arrival of any creature, man or beast, more.

And so the servants of ultimate evil came, with shuffling steps, and stood as a group of three before him. Though there were surely more. Hundreds that had scurried like roaches across the plain from Mordor. Following the darkness and the heavy shadow of the storm. All but these representative few had no doubt remained sheltered outside within the dark of the forest. Every part of their skin and clothes and teeth long ago rotted away to a gray-brown-black.

"What news from Mordor, my lord?"

Saruman shifted his eyes onto the speaker.

"What does the Eye command?"

The once white wizard studied each of the metal rings decorating the bridge of his nose and eyebrows, the tattered clothes that had certainly been stolen from murdered men years before, the two eyes red as flame. The overwhelming stench of rot and decay, of metal and the harsh fumes of industry swirled for the first time within his chambers.

Indifference plagued him. His will abounded. The thunderstorm veiled Isengard. Orthanc. Saruman himself.

Only desire remained.

And he answered accordingly:

"We have work to do."


End file.
